


Coming apart

by JauntyHako



Series: Moving On [1]
Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Bonding through hair, Fluff, Found Family, M/M, Post-Game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 10:48:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29383710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JauntyHako/pseuds/JauntyHako
Summary: Ulysses comes to terms with the fact he might be grieving.
Relationships: Male Courier/Ulysses
Series: Moving On [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2158479
Kudos: 11





	Coming apart

On the road three months when he thinks, this might be home. 

Looks around him, familiar sights hiding behind faces that should estrange. Don't. Not anymore. Somewhere between then and now he's gotten used to their tracks in the dirt beside his. Beside the wheels of their caravan. Courier's, no, Daz's idea, like most things are. 

Walks ahead, throws something for Rex to fetch, laughter ringing everytime he does. Takes point as usual. Boone watches their rear, lies on top of the last cart, sniper rifle pointed back the way they came. Can't yet look forward, still listens to the voices of the dead. Tries to hear their advice. Ulysses does not argue, knows what that's like. Knows, too, that the dead have no wisdom to give, but that he wouldn't have wanted to hear it then.

Cranes his neck, matches Rose of Sharon's bright face to the voice calling up towards Boone's perch. Teasing, like the young people in his tribe. All in good fun, she says. Beacon for old history, all mixed up and tangled with memories that sting when he touches them. Daz keeps telling him that sorting through them will bring him peace. Ulysses still keeps away from Rose of Sharon's teasing. 

Old ghoul, guiding the brahmin pulling the carts, mistakes his checking on their comrades for restlessness.

"Route's safe. Stretch your legs a little, mijo. We're not stopping until nightfall. Unless the boss gets us lost."

"He won't."

Walking sounds good. Has wandering feet, true enough, just like Daz said three months, a few weeks, and a lifetime ago. Boots hit the dusty ground, pull him along, and Ulysses follows. Not ahead, although Raul laughs to himself when Ulysses falls back instead like he sees the secret want in his dragging feet. Raspy little coughs, like Marked Men and not like them. Better. Like Marked Women, maybe.

Thinking of home, he doesn't dare get too close to Daz. Might set something off he's not seeing, gunpowder and sparks. Might make him panic, do something stupid. Say something unwise. 

No, he falls back. Along the second cart, no roof, only covered in tarp. Full of books, medicine, technology. Symbol painted on the canvas, but not marking it as property. A delivery. A message, Daz's favourite kind. 

Traces the red paint on white canvas, thinks about symbols, about home. Would have been a call for vengeance, had he worn the colours in his hair. Did wear them, twice. For the wasteland the colours mean relief. For Daz? Something else altogether.

Veronica guards this stretch of their moving home. Is meant to, anyway. She is tethered to the letter Daz brought before they left the Wasteland. Edges are frayed, stains on the paper. Not wrinkled, though. Sees in the smooth edges the way she folds it very carefully. A promise, he thinks. The kind that makes her smile, and Boone can't get. 

She tried to talk to him, once, about the Big Empty. Stopped, he's not sure why. Old history repeating itself. New outcome when she doesn't draw away. Now, lets him walk by her side, without asking for noise to cast a net between them. 

Can count the number of times on one hand someone's walked beside him. In body as well as spirit, that is. Followed Daz most his life, walked beside his tracks in the sand, slept in the spaces he vacated. Side by side, separated by time. Much less distance between them then. More, now, of his own making. Doesn't know how to find Daz's tracks when he's so close. But can't pull back anymore. Gave up distance. Not quite sure yet whether that's a good thing.

"Did you ever get a love letter, Ulysses?"

Question comes out of nowhere. Habit of Daz's companions. Imitate him, in their way. Ulysses doesn't judge. He does, too. Thinks about imitating far more than a habit, stalks the idea of home from far away. Won't find the answer unless he gets close to where Daz is keeping his watch.

"Delivered a few. Tribes scattered, families leaving home to survive. Things, people, get lost on the road. Eat in one place, long for another. Couriers bridge the gap."

"Oh, come on. Guy like you, they must have been lining up. They never wrote you any letters?" 

"Could have gone to hear the words myself. Didn't."

Didn't need to, no one to speak them. Can't say that, will make her pity him. Accepts some of it, sees Daz's wisdom when he told Ulysses to let them show their sympathy for his history. Their past reflected in his, see the why of it when they seek answers for their own pain.

But this isn't something he wants to be pitied for. Too much wrapped up in it, far more than simple loneliness. 

Veronica leaves it be, but the silence doesn't become heavy. They carry it between them, supplies for the road. Ulysses has silence to spare. Still surprised when someone offers to share it. Used to keeping his thoughts tucked away as a courtesy. Got sick of being met with blank stares. Or worse, laughter. 

Could never find the right path, from his mind to another's. Delivered other people's messages just fine, always struggled with his own. Until Daz. Never talked so much before. Hasn't again, unless he knows no one else will hear.

Thinks of home again. Startles when his fingers brush against hair. Didn't give them the order to touch. Habit, his own history carving grooves his feet can't leave. Feels for beads that are no longer there. The green and yellow one, the big one tying together two locs, still expects to find it underneath his fingertips. Never again. 

Or maybe ...

Thoughts scatter, eyes latch onto Daz. Anchors himself on the strong back, the yellow braids hiding the symbol Ulysses painted there. Thought the braids mockery at first. Was ignorant then, knows better now. More tribes than his own wear them. None like the Twisted Hairs, but Daz's not wearing them in his dead tribe's style. Doesn't pretend to either. 

Always meant to ask, if the braids mean something to him. If it's history or vanity guiding his nimble fingers. 

Phantoms of it Ulysses feels at the back of his neck. Everytime he thinks about Daz and home. They change in the thought, turn into his mother's. If he asks the Courier about his hair, he'll be asked in return. Only fair. 

Can't answer although the need pushes forward like the Bull to new conquest. Might fall apart if he denies himself much longer.

Caravan stops at nightfall. Daz hasn't gotten them lost, knew he wouldn't. Fire marks home for the night, a handful of feet in every direction. Enough for nearly forty people, all joined in a tribe in the making. Doesn't have its own traditions yet, no culture to speak of. United by Daz's vision, their affection for him. More will come or else the tribe will die in its inception.

Arcade bickers with Raul over the last agave fruit. Ulysses joins in, has a stake in the matter. Carries a handful of pieces over to where Daz sits, watching over the cooking meat. 

Sits. Shares his spoils, tries to make out patterns in the sparking flames. Around him his chosen family weaves noise into the air around them. Will stay there long after they've left. Ulysses has heard caravanners singing months after they passed. Knows whoever follows their tracks will hear laughter. 

Useless. Keeps trying to avoid it, should know better. Needs to ask, hopes Daz will understand.

"Braids are falling apart. Should take them out."

Daz glances at him, wonders, suspects. Imagination or truth? Could be he thinks of it as a trivial question. Small talk. 

"Probably. Care to lend a hand?"

Ulysses breathes a sigh of relief. He understands.

"Yes."

The others watch as Daz turns his back to Ulysses. Starts with a braid at the temple, Ulysses takes one at the back. Their curiosity caresses the edges of this interaction. No one intrudes, no one asks. Soon they go back to the things that matter more to them. 

His hands know the task. Strange, come to think of it. Last time he's done this he was young. Still a child? Forgets. Been so long, history has erased the way of it, but not the skill. One by one Daz's braids open up, heavy rain in the path of a flashlight turning into a halo of gold. Sometimes his knuckles will brush Daz's skin, make him shudder. Sometimes it's by accident. 

"Forgot how fast this goes when you've got someone helpin' along," Daz says, just softly enough that Ulysses knows the message is secret, meant only for him.

Tries not to be flattered. Is flattered. The feeling carries him towards what he needs to do next. Ulysses braces himself, breathes deep. In, out. Once more in.

"Reason why I wear locs. Not much time on the road. Surprised you found it."

Expects Daz to tilt his head, try to steal a glance. Isn't disappointed. He nudges Daz's head, makes him face forward again. Works on releasing his hair from their braids and tries hard not to think what he will do if Daz refuses this. Refuses him, and his clumsy attempt to share more than silence. So much easier when he still had rage to do the talking for him.

"Thought that was how your kin did it. You could wear braids, too?"

Almost half of Daz's hair is open now. Have to slow down if he wants to keep his hands busy. 

"No rules against it. Meaning lies in wood, bone, iron. Need something to attach it to, no more."

Daz stares into the darkness past their camp. Cups his hands around the message Ulysses delivers, reads it over and over. Reads the words he doesn't say, too.

"Got a whole camp now," Daz says. Chooses his words carefully. "Could probably find someone to help you braid. Not so bad at it myself."

An offer. First time in his life he got it. Doesn't say so, but his hands falter where his lips remain still. Tugs a knot into Daz's hair, poor repayment. Pretends he needs all his focus to work out the kink, takes his time with the answer.

Thought he knew what that answer is. Not so sure anymore. Thinks of history's fingers at his nape, his shoulders. Curious to see if he remembers it right. But there's weight in his palms, heavy for its absence. Daz feels it too. Or maybe he's listening to messages Ulysses never meant to send.

"Said something about wood, bone, iron. Ain't seeing any of that in your tresses."

Fingers still entangled with Daz's hair. Shackles him, keeps him from reaching up. Better to keep his fingers here, in the thin strands making up the braids, rather than feeling for something that isn't there. 

Daz earned this part of history. Walked the length of the Divide, twice, to buy the right to hear the why of it. The reason Ulysses' locs are empty. Only placeholders, to have _something_ there. Gave up when he realised without the beads lying heavy in his palm he could no longer find his own history. 

Daz hisses and Ulysses notices he's been pulling his hair. Apologises, quiets his hands that want to rend and tear. Will want to, maybe forever. Urge to touch, to caress is stronger most days. Not now. 

But like he did at the silo, Daz lowers his voice, finds Ulysses' line of sight and holds them both there. Not meek, but not asking for a fight either.

"Kept wondering why your hair's so short," he says. "That's ... what, four years of growing?"

Four years since the Divide. Since the fires raining from the sky, bursting from below took what even the Bull could not. And with it burned his history. 

Ulysses nods, finds he cannot speak. Meaning of it all strikes him mute. Awe, before a history that will not rest. Sorrow, Daz would say. Maybe. Willing to acknowledge that, if not accept it. 

Has to remove his hands from Daz's braids, to stop himself from tearing them out. Steal back what he took, but he can't. What was lost, beyond his reach now. When his hands drop, Daz finds them. Takes them in his, turns around so they can face each other. 

"Got everythin' you need. If you wanted to ... could comb out the locs. Put some braids in, maybe some of that wood and bone."

As if it's that simple. History doesn't want to be reclaimed. Erases itself, every chance it gets. Can't redo the braids he used to have, doesn't _remember_ what was there. Without his history, the braids will mean nothing. Empty, like the white legged wraiths clawing at his tribe's legacy. 

Hears voices in the space between himself and Daz. Sound like his tribe, sound like the Courier. Past doesn't matter, they say. Who cares for the history of it? Braids gain meaning through what's important now. 

Past is important. Let go of that, might lose himself for good. Barely anything left of him as it is. Has no anger, no scorn. Something that might be home, but might just be another Legion. Another Divide. 

"Have to think on it," he says when he should say no. 

Not why he came to Daz tonight, though. Didn't set out to say no, now he can't. 

"Take your time."

Daz kisses him, gently on the cheek. Knows Ulysses doesn't like an audience in these things. His hair bobs up and down as he gets up, like a cloud gathering around his head. Makes him look handsome. 

Might make Ulysses look handsome. Thought takes him by surprise. Stays with him when Daz has gone to bed, cloud of hair tied underneath cloth cut from an old nightgown.

Locs, braids, twists, never something he decided out of vanity. Means to record history, claim belonging. Tied him to home, when not even his people did. Remembers a girl in the tribe, a year older than he was. Used to shave the sides of her head, braided her loose hair into the remaining braids. No meaning in that, no purpose. She wore pearls in her hair, for no other reason than that she could. 

Daz would say it's not about the history of it. Not about the past and what it means. Would claim it's about grief. Truth in that. Redoing the braids means deciding on what to mourn, what to let go. Tribe called it the Great Distance. The space between two people that cannot be bridged. Road no courier can walk. Gave it the colour of oceans, decided that loss would be carried in the hair. 

Can't redo the braids like they used to be. Not even if he remembers what was lost. Feels differently about these things now. Not sure how, yet. But - fingers at his hair, tugging at the locs - could find out. Could comb out these and then leave them be. Wear his hair open for the first time since it was long enough to twist. 

Can't do it alone. Takes time, patience, to do it. Needs Daz to do it with him.

Flames die down, he's still thinking. Will pay for it tomorrow, when his feet will be too tired to walk. Thought of the teasing he'll hear if he stumbles pushes him to his feet. Over to where Daz lies, curled up, facing the dying embers. Eyes closed, breath even.

Wakes, briefly, when Ulysses settles down next to him, throws an arm over his side, two layers of bed rolls between them, and the clothes they wear when they camp out in the open. Almost too much, even so. 

Daz mumbles something, could be endearment, could be nonsense. Smile shows the meaning regardless. 

"Need your help with my hair. Tomorrow," he adds when Daz attempts to rouse himself from sleep.

Sinks back into the bedroll, the rolled up coat he uses for a pillow.

"Sure. Tomorrow."

He draws him closer and is asleep before Ulysses can kiss him goodnight.

Camp's more permanent than usual. Hilltop nearby Arcade wants to climb. Speaks of fire in the sky, a concert for deaf gods. Opportunity to witness comes and goes. Soon. 

No way to get the brahmin up the hill. Leave them and the carts by the road, a handful remain to watch them. Lily stays behind too. Eyes no longer good enough to notice the stars much. What she says at least. Might not want to leave the group downhill undefended. If so, he appreciates it. 

Looking for a home, didn't think he'd find it in turning wheels. Boots hitting dust turning to earth the farther north they get. Sky changes, days go by when it remains blue, without the yellow tint of sand on the wind. 

Take the entire day to set up. Could have done it faster. Luxury not needing to. Ulysses takes his time, picks a good spot close to where they'll build the fire. Centre of their tribe, such as it is. Used to be that way in the Twisted Hairs, too. Electricity running, his people still converged on the fire. Ate there, talked there. Drove away the demons of the wastes, trying to settle in their hearts. Hopelessness, scarcity, loneliness, despair. Fire keeps them out.

Taps Boone on the shoulder when afternoon yields to dusk. Rifle over his shoulder, doesn't need words. Move into the wild, dead and mutated life growing thick together, one propping up the other. 

Kill something with antlers, big enough to feed their people for weeks. Have to carry it together, still almost too heavy. Boone's proud, parts with a few words, commenting on the cold and if they'll see snow. Could be. Years since Ulysses last saw it, on snow-capped mountains, and in a city where the people were colder than the ice that fell from the sky. Until the Legion thawed the ice with blood. Not sure he prefers the heat. Will see, when seasons change.

Night's fallen by the time they get back. Boone and Ulysses are applauded for bringing back food. Strange thing, needs getting used to. People happy to see him. Boone offers him a seat by his side. Any other night, would have taken it. Doesn't take it personally when Ulysses goes to Daz instead.

Tonight he silently places a sacrifice at Daz's feet. Two combs, and a bag filled with a paste Daz makes himself. Better than water, especially for this. Offering to the spirit that delivered him from the Divide to perform the act again. 

Daz says little, bids him sit between his legs. They bracket him, tips of his boots knocking against Ulysses' knees. Daz is warm, solid behind him. That took some getting used to, too. Still shivers when he touches him, carding fingers through his locs.

"You sure about this? Won't retain the length once we start."

"I'm sure."

He starts. Tugs at Ulysses' hair, teases them out of their bonds one by one. Not something done in one night. Especially not when they pause to watch the shooting stars. Live up to Arcade's promise. Whole showers of them burning across the sky, heat enough for a hundred atom bombs. None reach earth. Old World died in fallen stars of its own making. No difference. Would look the same if it had been ... an accident. 

Daz's hair tickles his skin when he leans forward. Kisses his exposed shoulder without his hands leaving Ulysses' hair. Skin pulls taut when he draws back. Hadn't realised how cold it is. 

Might have argued with the blanket Veronica throws his way. Doesn't now. 

Year ago, wouldn't have believed where he'd end up. Wouldn't have wanted to be here. Has to reach deeper into the past to find a version of himself who wanted this. Not with Daz, even then. Those thoughts always been vague, was afraid of building up an image Daz wouldn't match. Not knowing then that Daz exceeds expectations as a habit.

Used to be a time, though, when he longed for something like this. Feeling of another's hands in his hair, at his neck. Divide took that from him. Wanting anything but a courier dead. Which, he didn't care. 

Daz gave it back. Wanting, wishing. Hoping. Made a little caravan, called it a nation. Ulysses believes in it. Gifts him kisses, Ulysses drinks them like whiskey, burning when they go down. Feels his hair coming loose under Daz's patient fingers, wants to see the shape of it when it's done. Out of curiosity, vanity. Out of wanting time to decide which braids to make. Daz gives him that, too. 

Took a lot. 

Gave back more.

**Author's Note:**

> This was mainly an exercise in writing Ulysses' voice. I have a whole novel(la)-length plot about how things got to where they are in this fic, and I wanted to get the voices right. Still experimenting with the Courier's. That fic's probably going to have a pretty neutral narrator because there's just no way I'm committing to writing fifty thousand odd words in the voice of a man who can't be literal to save his life. 
> 
> I'll forever love the fact that the in-game mesh of Ulysses' hair is clearly meant to have beads in it, and they just forgot to colour them in. Hey, it's only one of the most integral parts of that character's personality and history, nbd. So for this fic I went a little overboard and did an entire write-up of the Twisted Hair's symbolism and meanings in their hair. What ended up in the fic? Two and a half references. So there's definitely going to be at least one more oneshot that lets me use that and put some actual braids into Ulysses' hair again.


End file.
